Page 17 of Ever Mine

“Good girl. So if I fuck you now while you’re bent over my desk, then I’ll be leaking out of you for the rest of the day. My come running down your legs. Just thinking about that has me so damn hard.”

“Yes, please.”

“You want that? You want me to mark my territory, fill you up, and let you sit in the mess of us afterwards?”

“Yes. I want that.”

“Fuck, I want you. Pull that skirt up, all the way up. I want to see your pretty ass.” I unzip my trousers and pull myself out.

Yeah, so I abandoned the snowed-in cabin story. Or at least pushed it back for a while. This new one is unfolding like magic. The words are pouring out of me.

I try to tell myself it’s because Ford finally got his head out of his ass and told his assistant, Mia, how he really felt about her. Now they’re engaged and in love, and I set that whole thing in motion. So an office romance fits.

But I know that’s just an excuse. Because in my mind, Ms. Joy Windsor looks remarkably like Addison. Not to mention she’s the first virgin character I’ve ever written.

The hero, Peter Sinclair, is a complete goner for his innocent assistant. He can say the things that I can’t. Feel as strongly as he can. Fiction can be intentionally messy and expressive in ways that are inappropriate in the real world.

After Addison and I finalize our plans for the evening via text messages, I leave the office on time and head straight home. I’ve already put an order in at Gator’s and paid extra to have it delivered to my house later tonight. Dinner isn’t part of her research, but if I’m taking Addison’s virginity, feeding her is the very least I can do.

And it seems less potentially horrifying than buying her a diamond ring.

I get my house ready, which doesn’t take much time considering it’s just me, and I tend to be on the tidy side. I decide to go casual tonight and don a pair of jeans and a dark green Henley.

When she arrives, she stands in my doorway looking both brave and uncertain, clutching her bag like a shield.

She’s standing just inside the door, porchlight catching on the soft fabric of her dress. It’s a pale, dusky pink—something that should look sweet and innocent, but on her it does entirely different things to my equilibrium.

The material drapes over her curves like it was made to test my restraint, the neckline modest but somehow more dangerous for it. Every time she breathes, the fabric moves, whispering against her skin. Giving me just a hint of her impressive cleavage.

Her hair is loose, the ends brushing her shoulders, and the faintest curl has escaped to rest against her collarbone. I want to tuck it back, to feel the silk of it between my fingers.

She’s wearing heels—nothing dramatic, but enough to make her legs look longer. And when she shifts her weight, nervous energy rippling through her, the movement is pure distraction.

The only jewelry she has on is a thin gold chain that rests just above the neckline of her dress. When she laughs, it glints—one flash of light that hits me like a spark.

It’s such a simple outfit. Nothing showy, nothing meant to entice.

And that’s precisely why it undoes me.

Because Addison Blankenship doesn’t need to try. She just is.

And God help me, she’s beautiful.

She shifts under my gaze, cheeks coloring faintly.

“Do I pass inspection?” she asks, smiling just enough to let me know she’s aware of the effect she’s having.

“Barely,” I say. “I was expecting something more… professional. A blazer, perhaps. Power suit.”

She snorts softly. “Sorry to disappoint. I left my corporate armor at home.”

“Good,” I murmur. “I prefer this version of you.”

Her lips curve, a little uncertain. “You mean the nervous, overdressed one?”

I motion for her to follow me to the dining table. “The real one.”

Dinner’s already set out—shrimp po’boys, fries, two glasses of wine. I pull out a chair for her. She sits, smoothing the skirt of her dress with hands that tremble just slightly.